"If Jack had handled things this way back then, our family would never have fallen to such a state."
On the other end of the line, Augustus Morgan let out a long sigh.
After venting his emotions a little, he assured Leo:
"Don't worry. I promise—the investigation will go no further than United Finance.
There are so many royals involved here. Investigators may have no fear confronting a single family, but if it causes an international ripple when they all stand together, America won't dare act recklessly.
You've handled this with great courage. More and more, I believe you truly have the ability to shape America's future."
With that, Augustus hung up the phone. The potential loopholes in the Atlantic Real Estate Group were now patched.
It was time to deal with the Pacific Real Estate Group.
"Mr. Valentino."
Carson Merlin entered and gave a respectful bow.
Leo nodded, handing him the breakup manual. The room fell silent, broken only by the sound of Carson turning the pages.
After a quick read, Carson calmed his shock and asked the same question Tucson had before:
"Mr. Valentino, has the situation truly grown this dire?"
Leo nodded. He explained that his shareholding in Pacific Real Estate was the smallest. After all, the western business of American Real Estate had originally belonged to Merlin Properties. Now, with the breakup, he naturally couldn't hold much stock here. That weakness made it the easiest target for others to covet.
Carson's mood grew heavy. A split meant being trapped in the West again, years of effort possibly wasted. Worse still, his income would take a sharp cut.
Sensing Carson's displeasure, Leo said, "Look at this."
He handed him a customized share-transfer plan.
After a glance, realization dawned on Carson. Though the document mentioned only his Merlin family, the fact they were allocated five percent of Blackstone Asset Management—registered in the Cayman Islands—spoke volumes. The monopoly of the American Real Estate Group had not disappeared; it had only become more concealed.
"What do you need from me?"
Carson knew Leo well. If he had already been given equity in Blackstone, there was no reason to oppose any of Leo's plans. Leo must have had something specific in mind to summon him personally.
"Carson, I need a favor. But first, I must know—on some matters before, there were misunderstandings between us. Can you assure me you won't disappoint me again?"
"My loyalty to you, sir, can't be expressed in words. Only in action. Tell me what needs to be done."
"I need you to stage a quarrel with me."
Soon, all of Westchester County's elites were abuzz with news: the Western head of the American Real Estate Group had a huge fight with Leo Valentino. The cause remained unknown, fueling endless speculation.
But the guessing didn't last long. Just five days before the National Housing Act was to pass, on a working day, Senator Gerard and House Representatives Frank, Desmond, and Daniel jointly submitted an application to both chambers for an antitrust investigation into the American Real Estate Group.
Before anyone could react, the Speakers of both House and Senate approved the petition.
In Manhattan, inside the Stillman family estate, old John Stillman hurled a late-17th-century French bone-china vase to the floor, shattering it into dust.
His chest heaved violently, fury consuming him. In front of his desk, his younger son Henry Stillman trembled.
He had never seen his father so enraged.
"Who leaked the news?" John's voice was cold and venomous.
"I checked. Likely a congressman named Ster. He's close to Thomas's man, Joe Roan. Three days ago, someone saw them dining together at Valentino's Hot Springs estate."
"A congressman? Then send him to his death!"
After speaking, John gradually regained composure.
His rage was justified. From the day his elder son John Jr. was dumped into the Atlantic, he had sworn vengeance.
But vengeance did not mean forming some loud "anti-Leo alliance." James Roosevelt's fate had already proven—Leo was not an easy opponent.
So, outwardly, old John feigned indifference, keeping his businesses running. Secretly, he contacted defeated candidates from the last election, probing carefully at their attitude toward Leo. Only those who showed strong hostility would he reveal his next moves to.
He was in no rush. He made every ally avoid Thomas and Marshall, Leo's tightest allies, so as not to alert the snake before the strike.
Now, with Leo's American Real Estate Group on the verge of collapse, his power finally weakened, even McKay—the Jewish giant who never favored opposing Leo—had agreed to give him a lesson.
Yet at this critical moment, their plot had been sniffed out.
What enraged him most was Leo's decisiveness—opting for self-dissection.
John could only hope Leo's plan had flaws, rushed loopholes they could exploit, so they could protest in both chambers and seize control of the antitrust committee investigation.
"You couldn't dig out his breakup plan?" John demanded.
Henry shook his head. "All I found was Lawrence Rockefeller's involvement. But that man has vanished. I pulled every string, couldn't locate him."
Hearing this, John's fury reignited. Leo was proving too damn hard to deal with.
"Where is Leo Valentino now?"
"That's easier. His servants said he went to Florida," Henry answered.
"At such a moment of crisis, what the hell is he doing in Florida?"
"Maybe… the pressure was too much. He went to get some sun?"
"Bullshit!" John roared, furious at his son's stupidity. Rage fed into his hatred of Leo. His ideal heir had been John Jr.—not this disappointing Henry.
But what was Leo doing in Florida at this time? John knew from his investigations: Leo never did useless things.
"Find out who else has gone to Florida recently."
Henry obeyed, left, then returned with a grim face.
"Father… I think Leo may have gone to see Mr. McKay."
John's expression changed instantly. He realized Leo intended to seal off the last exposed weakness.
He quickly dialed McKay's butler, prying out the phone number to McKay's Florida estate. As he called, he asked Henry:
"How long has Leo been there?"
"Two days," Henry admitted.
So long already… John's heart sank. He could only hope McKay's anger at Leo still burned hot enough.
But would Leo let things unfold his way? Of course not.
—
Two days earlier, in Miami.
Leo disembarked and slid into a bulletproof Bentley prepared by the Bay Group. Greeting him was Andrew Dutch, head of the Southern branch of American Real Estate, vice president of the American Veterans Association, and a Miami city councilman.
Once a poor kid, Andrew's entire post-retirement life had been planned by Leo: funded through school, launched into politics, and steadily elevated into Miami's elite. His loyalty was unquestioned—he was Leo's most trusted among the trusted.
Men like Andrew existed in cities across America. Each occupied a local position of influence, cultivated by Leo's resources after his election victory. They weren't yet at Leo's ideal heights—but enough to save him time.
Now Andrew reported McKay's whereabouts:
"Boss, the Chairman is at Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach."
The estate, built in 1927 by food heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post, was a Mediterranean-style palace meant as a winter retreat for American presidents. Tennis courts, golf greens, ballrooms—it had it all.
Presidents used it. So did America's "invisible presidents." McKay adored it, spending more time here each winter than actual presidents.
Fittingly, he stayed in the same room Roosevelt once used. Truman's quarters were smaller by fifteen square meters.
Warm sea winds rippled the greens. McKay focused on a swing, but the shot went awry. Annoyed, he flung the club aside.
He was rarely emotional. But these two days, a figure had stood at a respectful distance—unmoving, waiting. And McKay detested him.
"Couldn't Marjorie just throw that nuisance out?" McKay grumbled to his friend and aide, Garcia.
Garcia, a Yale economics professor whose foundation had quietly received Leo's funding, replied carefully:
"She can't. With your backing, he's already a major American figure. How could she risk offending him?"
"Ha! Don't credit me. He got here on his own. If he thought I truly helped him, he wouldn't have stirred up such chaos out West."
Garcia's eyes lit up. It was the first time McKay mentioned the issue directly—a sign of a shift. He pressed quickly:
"Without your shelter, Wall Street would've swallowed him long ago. He did go too far in the West, but… young men make mistakes. He's stood there under the blazing sun for two days. Why not hear him out?"
McKay eyed Garcia. "How much has he funded your projects this time?"
"Ten million," Garcia admitted. Their bond was deep; there was no need for lies.
"Generous brat. Fine. For your sake—bring him over."
Soon, Leo approached. His skin was darkened, his once-pale complexion burned into bronze. McKay's resentment eased slightly.
Leo's sense of timing was flawless. His "bitter-meat" tactic had worked.
The Florida sun was merciless. Even he, once fair, now looked wheat-colored.
The moment he stood before McKay, Leo bowed deeply.
"Mr. McKay, I was wrong."
He stayed bent, refusing to straighten, sincerity radiating. In his heart, he recalled the ancients' teachings: to endure humiliation for future greatness. A temporary bow was worthwhile.
It was not yet the age of Japanese investment flooding America—but this Eastern-style apology struck McKay profoundly.
After all, everyone knew: Leo Valentino was the man who bowed to no one. Not the Morgans. Not the Rockefellers. He defied them all.
Yet here he was, bending to McKay. Half the Chairman's anger evaporated.
"So, your wings have hardened—you ignore me, eh? Now you apologize. And what good is that? You've already seized Bank of America. What, you'll spit it back out?"
To Leo, the subtext was clear: Words aren't enough. What real offering have you brought to cool my anger?
He had prepared for this. Producing a proposal, he offered it.
"Mr. Chairman, I acted too hastily, and hurt many interests. This is my compensation."
Not a stock transfer—but a booklet? McKay frowned. He had wanted Bank of America shares. Was this some trick?
He took it reluctantly, flipping a few pages with disdain.
Then, after two more pages, his posture stiffened. After two more, he snapped it shut.
He pointed to a nearby pavilion. "There."
As they walked, McKay's brow furrowed deeply, lost in thought.
Garcia whispered to Leo, "What did you show him?"
Leo smiled faintly. "The one thing financial capital loves most. An expanded version of a super 'Switzerland.'"